FAR ACROSS TOWN: THE TURN
Under a fake pharmaceutical office, six floors below ground, a handful of people thought they were changing the world.
They called it The Neural Regeneration Initiative.
Big words. Noble ones. Healing the brain, curing paralysis — that was the dream.
Ravi was just another man who signed up for ₹50,000 and a promise. Hope in a syringe.
It was supposed to be safe — a quick injection, a few hours under observation, then home with a healed body and a lighter soul.
That's what the brochure said.
Then his eyes opened.
And he screamed so hard the glass shook.
Ravi's whole body jerked, tendons straining like cables ready to snap. His spine bent back until it looked wrong. The restraints groaned.
Monitors went wild — red lights, beeping alarms, doctors shouting over each other.
Then the smell hit — blood, sweat, chemicals — a metallic wrongness that made everyone flinch.
Shreya, one of the assistants, reached out. "Ravi, listen to me—"
He bit her.
No warning. No scream. Just teeth and blood.
The sound froze everyone — that soft, wet tear no one should ever hear.
Her veins turned black within seconds, spreading up her neck like ink through paper.
Someone screamed. Then another.
Dr. Kapoor shouted, "Hold him down!"
A guard swung his baton and cracked Ravi's jaw. It didn't stop him. He didn't even blink.
His head twisted with a sharp click — too far to be human — and he lunged again.
Panic exploded.
People ran for the elevator. Shreya convulsed on the floor, choking, her eyes rolling white.
Ahmed — junior researcher, containment team, nobody special — just stood frozen.
Then instinct took over.
While everyone ran up, he ran down the hall and into the storage room.
He slammed the steel door shut, twisted the lock, shoved a metal shelf against it.
The air inside smelled like cold iron and disinfectant. And fear.
Outside: chaos.
Groans. Screams. Bones cracking. Flesh tearing.
Bodies hitting the glass walls, sliding down, leaving streaks.
Through a crack, Ahmed watched, chest heaving. His mind tried to process what his eyes refused to believe.
Then he saw something worse.
Prakash — one of the senior researchers — shuffled past the window.
He twitched once, twice, like a broken puppet. Then his hand reached the door handle.
Twisted.
Stopped.
Twisted again.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned it the right way.
Ahmed's breath hitched.
He wasn't just moving.
He was learning.
His throat tightened as he fumbled for his phone.
Still, he hit record.
"Day one… hour zero…" he whispered, voice shaking. "They're not dying. Their brains are rewriting. They're learning. It spreads in under thirty seconds. God help us."
He sat there — listening.
The screams faded. Then the sounds changed.
Feet dragging. Doors creaking. Then silence.
Somewhere far above, the city's noise shifted — fewer horns. More screams. Even through six floors of concrete, he could hear.
Finally, when he couldn't take the quiet anymore, he moved.
He packed whatever he could — an axe from the emergency box, a half-empty water bottle, one sealed vial of the compound.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
He climbed the maintenance ladder, each rung echoing in the shaft. Metal. Metal. Breath. Heartbeat.
The higher he went, the louder the noise — sirens, explosions, and that awful chorus of cries that weren't human anymore.
He pushed open the hatch.
Hot air slapped his face — thick with smoke and ash.
The skyline of Niraya burned in orange light.
Cars crashed into each other. People ran. Others didn't.
Ahmed just stood there, gripping the axe until his knuckles went white.
He looked at the chaos — the fires, the people falling, the sky turning red — and whispered,
"God forgive us… we did it."
He tightened his grip on the axe… and stepped into the burning city.